


jr $ra

by MagiKatFish



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, But also, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, good ending, im incapable of writing things that dont work out so dont worry too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagiKatFish/pseuds/MagiKatFish
Summary: “You were partners, weren’t you? So, why did you think he would be here?”And that was just the question, wasn’t it? A hell of a week, and he’d ended up here. He hadn’t really thought. He’d simply hoped. And now the unbearable feeling was coiling once more, tight around his throat.What the hell had he been hoping for?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is in reference to MIPS architecture, where I lowkey got my theory for ra9 (hey you, you know who you are--thank you!!). This isn't reallyyy an ra9 theory work but... sshh. Also if this is unclear: this takes place in a pretty much pacifist route/deviant Connor/good end run, except Connor stays machine and meets Hank on the rooftop, but ends up not killing Markus in the end anyways. Because I wanted an equivalent resolution/Hug Scene for that version of deviant Connor, gdi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank deals with loss.

Hank Anderson was not a good person. 

It was one of those immutable facts, things that everyone should know: the sky was blue, the world was going to shit, and Hank Anderson was not a good person.

Still, it hurt too much not to try.

The old churchyard itself wasn’t too difficult to find; the police activity gave it away immediately. DPD officers had set up a two block perimeter in the neighborhood, and he spotted a disheveled, blond-haired android speaking to some of them. Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention—he was still suspended from active duty, after all—he flashed his badge at a couple rookies one block down and slipped inside. 

The church, he had gathered, was where the survivors of Jericho must’ve fled after the raid. He found several of them milling around, most likely keeping watch, and honestly he couldn’t blame them—not even two weeks ago, the humans who were now supposedly protecting them had been trying to destroy them instead. It was why he didn’t flinch when a hand grabbed him by the elbow, forcing him to a stop.

He spun around and came face to face with a Traci, bundled rather tightly in heavy winter clothes. She was missing her LED, but he recognized the design from their investigation in the Eden Club’s storage room. The thought made him uncomfortable and he drew his arm away, out of her grasp.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, hand still stretched out in the space between them, like she’d forgotten about it. 

“I’m, uh,” Hank looked away and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Humans aren’t supposed to be allowed through,” she said, and the weight of the anger in her voice unnerved him. She was so expressive—without the LED, would he have been able to tell? “We already told the DPD after the last break-in that—”

Hank raised one hand to placate her and withdrew his badge again, holding it out to show her. Her speech cut off a little too cleanly to be normal, but her eyebrows scrunched and her lips thinned in the perfect picture of displeasure.

“I’m with them,” he said. “Listen, is there anyone here I could talk to? It’s not for an investigation.”

She stared at him for one long moment, unblinking. He shifted where he stood and wondered if she’d blown a circuit and if he ought to call for someone, when her eyes finally fluttered and she nodded.

“Someone is on the way.”

“Huh.”

Both of them stood where they were, facing each other, as they waited for whoever she’d called to show up. It was painfully awkward, and Hank had never been one for small talk, but he still felt the need to try. Bridging the gap wasn’t going to happen overnight.

“So,” he said, cautiously. “You got a name?”

The Traci glanced at him and frowned. He must be some sight, a haggard old cop trying to chit-chat like he was at a goddamn mixer. He’d only belatedly realized how heavy-loaded the question had been too. 

The awkward look on his face must’ve amused the Traci though, because she smiled. It was all lips and no teeth, but her eyes still gleamed.

“I haven’t decided on one,” she replied. 

Hank nodded, not quite sure what to say that didn’t sound either patronizing or inane. A silence fell between them again, and he glanced around. No one was approaching them yet. He brought up a hand to scratch his beard.

“What happened to your hand?” The Traci asked suddenly, and Hank paused. 

He glanced down at his still-healing knuckles. The split was mostly scabbed over, and the bruising had faded to a modest green-brown. He couldn’t help the grimace that slipped through, even as he brought his hand back down to his side.

“Punched a guy,” he said with a shrug. 

The Traci’s head tilted somewhat to the side. “A human. Why?”

“Didn’t like him much,” Hank replied carefully, but the Traci continued to stare at him intently so he sighed. “I was helping someone.”

“Who?”

Hank glanced away, couldn’t bear to look any longer into her curious brown eyes. They must’ve designed androids’ eyes like that on purpose, because he’d never fucking been able to deal with them. He clenched his jaw and coiled his uninjured hand protectively over the other one.

“A friend,” he finally decided on.

The Traci didn’t question him further, though by the sudden ache that pulled at his chest it sure felt like she had. He wasn’t sure if they were friends, anymore. He wasn’t sure they ever really had been. He’d said as much, just over a week ago, cold and desperate and betrayed on the snowy rooftops of Detroit. He’d said it, but—but he hadn’t meant it, had he? Neither of them had. But honestly, he didn’t really know.

God, he needed another drink. 

“Excuse me?”

Hank turned, and spotted the same blond android from earlier approaching him. Actually, he wasn’t sure if it was the same or not—the same models looked exactly alike, so it was hard to tell—but he looked just as disheveled as the first had been, so he figured it was. 

“I’ll be going,” The Traci said, and with a final glance in Hank’s direction added, “I hope you find your friend.”

Then she left, disappearing around the side of the churchyard, and Hank watched her go, feeling unsure.

The blond android hummed, and then held out his hand. “My name is Simon.”

“Hank,” he replied, and took the extended hand to shake. Simon’s smile was unusual, more like a twitch than an actual expression, but he seemed pleased enough.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” the android said. “Your face is not entirely unfamiliar at Jericho.”

“Right,” Hank said, pulling his hand back. “Shit. Sorry.”

Simon shook his head. “Not entirely unwelcome, either. We are simply cautious.”

Hank sucked in a breath through his teeth. Definitely not drunk enough for this. 

“I can understand why.”

Simon merely tipped his head. “Well, Hank. You’re looking for a friend?”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice gruff. “I just wanted to know if he’d ended up here… After the demonstrations, and all.”

“An android?” Simon asked, and he sounded surprised. 

Hank clenched his fists on instinct. He must’ve looked like a jackass. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

Simon blinked, and then gave another one of his half-smiles. “If he’s here, Markus will know. Follow me.”

Simon led Hank around to the other side of the church and they slipped in through a side entrance. The main hall of the building was a swarm of activity, and Hank spotted a large group of androids working together to carry and stack a considerable stockpile of labelled crates. A male android was navigating through the group with a tablet, occasionally stopping to speak with one of the others and jotting something down. Hank supposed they must have been counting supplies. He hadn’t considered it much before, but sheltering as many androids as Jericho had must’ve been quite the operation, with nobody but themselves to rely on if they got injured.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Simon said, leading him up a staircase and away from the center of activity. “We’re currently preparing to move to more permanent accommodations.” 

Hank grunted in acknowledgement but decided not to pursue the subject. It wasn’t really any of his business where they moved to, or why. They probably wouldn’t be too keen on sharing it with him anyways.

When they rounded the corner of the narrow walkway, the room opened up to a small balcony—the organ would’ve sat up here, if the church still had it. In its stead was a small base of operations, tables lined with chairs and strewn with various papers and devices. Tucked in the corner, eyes skimming rapidly over a file held aloft in his hands, was the deviant leader himself.

It was a heavy punch in the gut, to see him alive and working, over a week after it had all happened. It felt a lot like dread, and it burned with the question of what—if anything—he’d missed. 

How the hell was he not dead?

Hank tried to recall what he knew about the deviants’ leader. He had only ever seen the android on TV. In broadcasts he’d been larger than life, making grand speeches and leading an army to change the course of history itself. To see him tucked against the back of his chair, looking thoroughly overworked, and reading from hard-copy paper of all things—Hank couldn’t help but release a small, amused breath. 

Christ, but hadn’t humanity been blind. 

“Markus,” Simon called, and the android in question lowered the file to glance up. 

“Thank you, Simon,” he said smoothly, and began to stand up. 

Hank supposed that was his cue, so he shuffled past Simon’s shoulder and made to approach.

A female android blocked his path instantly.

“Don’t move,” she growled, a firm hand pressed against his chest. Hank glanced down at her—another Traci design, with a sandy-red braid—and frowned.

“North,” Markus sighed, “he’s with the police.”

“Who up until a week ago were still killing us—”

The pieces fell into place and Hank snorted, so both their heads swiveled towards him.

“You’re welcome to hold my gun if it’ll make you feel better,” he offered, sliding off the holster and holding it out. 

North took it immediately, eyes narrowed, but finally stepped out of his way. 

“I’m sorry,” Markus began, but Hank held up a hand and waved him off.

“Can’t be too careful, I get it. It’s smart.”

“Simon mentioned you were looking for an android. May I ask why?”

“I already said, it’s not for a case,” Hank said. “I just—I want to make sure he’s all right.”

Understatement of the century. Markus’ gaze swept over him. 

“What’s his name?”

Hank swallowed. “Connor.”

Markus closed his eyes for a moment, head slightly inclined. If he still had an LED, Hank was sure it would’ve been spinning a bright yellow. In the silence, his hands found his coat pockets, and he teased at the loose string of one of the inside linings. He was starting to feel shaky. 

“Sorry,” Markus eventually said, opening his eyes. “There’s nobody at Jericho named Connor.” 

Hank felt something in his chest plummet. “You’re sure?”

Markus frowned. “I suppose, if you knew what model—”

“RK800,” Hank replied instantly. 

He regretted it when he saw the way the three androids in the room tensed. North scowled at him, and Simon glanced nervously at Markus. It tipped Hank off immediately.

“This—Connor,” Markus began, uncharacteristically unsure, and Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Was he deviant?”

Hank clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. Hell if he knew, at this point. It was why he’d come to Jericho in the first place. He’d thought—well, he’d thought a lot of things, over the past couple weeks—but he’d hoped so. More than anything he’d hoped for in a while.

Hank took a deep breath, and came to a decision: they knew. They knew, but they didn’t want to tell him, and that wasn’t going to fly. He’d been getting tired of all the pleasantries anyways.

“Tell me what you know,” he growled, taking a sudden step towards Markus, and the gathering finally lost all pretense. 

He supposed he should be afraid of the android now pointing his own gun at his head, or the heavy presence of the blond one looming over his shoulder. Instead, he was glad.

Markus was watching him again, and Hank finally got a good look at his mismatched eyes. It was symbolic in its irony; a perfectly-designed thing, made imperfect. Man or machine, but Markus had both: a man who was machine. Markus was watching him, and Hank wondered what he might see. 

“He’s dead,” Markus finally said, and Hank—Hank didn’t react. He’d heard those words before, three years ago and in every nightmare since.

But he still couldn’t help it when his lungs seized. “When?” he asked, forcing the sound out between his teeth.

“The night of the Jericho raid.”

Hank could hardly think. He scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Markus frowned. “I killed him.”

“No,” Hank replied, “You fucking didn’t. Not then, at least. Try again: when’s the next time you saw him?”

“I didn’t,” Markus said, brows furrowed in confusion. “I tried to convert him, but he wouldn’t listen—he was going to kill me, so I had to stop him. He’s dead.”

Hank stared.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

The female android made a derisive noise, somewhere in the back of her throat. She lowered the gun but kept her stance trained on him. Not outwardly hostile, but prepared. 

“Why don’t you tell us what  _ you _ know,” she snapped, “and then you can leave.”

Hank turned his gaze to her. He wanted to say something—he wasn’t sure he knew anything, anymore—but the words wouldn’t form. He’d come here, because… why? What, exactly, had he been expecting?

Simon cleared his throat—he could hear the crackling burst of static, just beneath it—and prompted him, “You were partners, weren’t you? So, why did you think he would be here?”

And that was just the question, wasn’t it? A hell of a week, and he’d ended up here. He hadn’t really thought. He’d simply hoped. And now the unbearable feeling was coiling once more, tight around his throat.

What the hell had he been hoping for?

*

Hank had spent the better part of the past three years letting life go on without him. He’d lost more than he could count: his son, his wife, his own self-respect. He’d parted ways with his health, his sobriety, his will to live, and with every new thing he found to throw down the drain he learned how to lose it all without feeling a thing. The numbness felt better than the pain, and the hollow ache in his empty chest felt safer than any alternative. He was going to die one of these days, just a simple matter of time, and it was okay because he had nothing left to lose but his own life, and nobody who would care enough about losing him in turn. He had it all planned out.

And, as usual, he’d somehow managed to fuck up even that.

He’d gone and found something else to lose.

He got home late at night, live news of the situation with the deviants’ demonstration blaring loudly from the TV. He’d forgotten to turn it off earlier, in his haste to leave, but now he couldn’t find the remote fast enough. 

The TV flickered off, the house fell into darkness, and from the kitchen Sumo whined. He shrugged off his coat, let it fall to the floor, and stumbled past the couch into the kitchen. He poured out enough food for Sumo, set the bowl on the ground, and then poured himself a drink. The first of many, though he doubted any of it would be enough.

He’d tried, and he’d failed. The whiskey burned as it slid down his throat, and he chased it with another, and another, until the image of a snow-powdered rooftop faded from his eyes, and he forgot all about a certain too-familiar, CyberLife-blue glow. 

*

When his consciousness surfaced enough, and he felt himself getting sober again, he did two things: he fed Sumo, and he found his bottle of rum.

As he rummaged through the liquor cabinet, he realized that his right hand was hurting. He pulled it back, raised it in front of his face, and stared at the split-skin and angry bruises in a daze. 

He’d done that, a couple days ago. A blue glow, a goofy voice—Agent Perkins had been asking for it, hadn’t he? They had needed time, just five minutes, to find Jericho. At the time, Hank had been happy to do it. But not because he’d wanted to stop the revolution, or because he’d wanted to solve the case. 

He’d done it because at the time, in his mind, Jericho had been the furthest thing away from CyberLife he could think of.

It was a place for people who were more than just machines, so of course he’d want to find a way to get Connor there. Connor was willing to be whatever Hank wanted, and Hank—Hank had decided what he wanted Connor to be.

But Connor had lied.

And Hank didn’t want to think anymore.

*

The next time he came back up for air, he was on the couch, with Sumo draped over him, paws digging uncomfortably into his chest. Hank scowled and tried to sit up.

“Sumo,” he snapped, head throbbing. 

Sumo heaved off him and dropped, ungracefully, to the floor. Hank gasped in a sharp breath, but without the warmth of Sumo’s fur, he was starting to feel the chill of the winter air seeping in. He could see the frost building on the windowsill nearby, clinging hungrily to the glass. A shiver worked its way down his spine.

Hank thought of warm brown eyes and steady hands. He thought of hard white plastic and blue blood, about rooftops, and the sound of gunshots, and what it meant to believe in needing someone.

A month ago, Hank would’ve been content to agree that deviants were a problem. He would have agreed that an android had killed his son, that an android had taken away and ruined his ability to love.

But then he’d gone to the rooftop, and it was cold—too cold, glistening with a thin sheen of ice—and if Hank was smart he would’ve stayed inside, or left Detroit with the thousands of others fleeing from the conflict. Instead, he’d gone in the opposite direction entirely in search of quite possibly the most dangerous android in all of Detroit, and found him staring down the sight of a fully-assembled rifle.

And why had he gone there?

Because it was right. Because humanity had been wrong, and he’d been wrong too. He’d been afraid to face the world, to feel his disappointment at it and to carry on living when he had no place in it. But then there was Connor, and he’d seen it all. He’d seen the need for change, in himself, in the world—in Connor, too.

He’d decided to help Connor be free. But what was he supposed to do, if Connor didn’t want to be?

Hank reached for Sumo, pulled him back up and onto the couch, and wrapped his arms around him, thinking—had he lost someone important to him, again? Or had he been wrong, and he’d never had one back in the first place.

Did Connor know that leaving him alive on the rooftop, rather than killing him, had punished him more?

*

After he’d gone through the rum, he returned to the kitchen for the gin, and felt a cold draft push through the air. His window was still taped up—he hadn’t gotten around to sending CyberLife the bill. 

It was one of those things he’d hoped they could’ve laughed about, when it was all said and done. But now the sight hurt, and he wondered how much Connor had lied. What he’d said that night he’d broken in, what felt like so long ago—Hank had lived for him because of that.  _ I need you, Lieutenant,  _ he’d said, and Hank had wanted so badly to believe him. 

Christ, he should’ve died.

He should’ve died when Connor pulled him up from the rooftop edge, runaway deviant forgotten. He should’ve died, when Connor had barged into his house and saved him from himself, and when Connor had decided to die for him instead, and saved him from getting shot in the Stratford Tower. And, one last time, on the snowy rooftop, when he’d planted himself firmly in the way, but somehow killing him  _ wasn’t part of the mission. _

Connor had saved a lot of lives, hadn’t he? Hank’s, Chloe’s, the two Traci’s from the Eden Club—and more. There’d been no real reason to let them all live. It wasn’t the mission. In fact, most of the time their lives had gotten in the way. And still, Connor had followed him, and talked to him, and always tried so hard to reconcile with him. He’d put others first, he’d shared his doubts, he’d worked so hard not to be destroyed.

When he’d faced Connor, on the icy cold roof, Hank should have been afraid to die. But he’d looked into Connor’s eyes, and he wasn’t, because Connor had never wanted him dead.

Connor had wanted him alive—and nobody wanted that, nobody cared—and Hank thought, heavily, that maybe Connor had never really lied to him at all.

*

The last time Hank woke up from nothingness, he was splayed out across the kitchen table, and faced with an empty bottle he’d meant to last for another month.

He stood up—nearly fell over, braced himself against the back of the chair—and headed for the liquor cabinet. He was too sober, his head hurt, and he needed a drink.

Sumo planted himself under his feet.

“Watch it,” Hank snapped. 

Sumo tilted his head up and lolled out his tongue. Hank sighed, and made his way to the couch, where Sumo joined him. He buried one hand into the dog’s fur. It was soft, but he needed to brush it sooner or later. Sumo’s nose pressed against the inside of his elbow, and Hank’s grip tightened. 

“Good boy,” he said. 

Sumo licked him. 

And Hank finally, finally clicked on the TV.

There, on the screen, was a picture of Markus, standing on a stage in front of hundreds of androids—an image from a speech he’d given on that cold, dark night. Hank had already been passed out by then. The newscasters were discussing his next steps: plans for dialogue with Congress, countless testimonials and campaigns. They kept throwing around buzzwords like  _ integration,  _ wondering how humans and androids would live and work alongside each other now, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth, because hadn’t he already been doing that, these past couple weeks? 

They kept wondering how Markus was handling his sudden status as the head of a revolution. Hank, though, could only wonder how he was still alive.

Connor had had a mission. And that night, when Hank had confronted him—failed him—he had left to complete it. For Markus to be alive, a whole week later, that meant one of two things: Connor had either failed… or he’d decided not to succeed. 

And Hank was tired of pretending that he didn’t need Connor too.

*

His plan was, admittedly, not very well thought out.

There weren’t many people around when he walked into the precinct. He recognized several officers, out of uniform, moving about in the reception hall. People who couldn’t leave the city had come to the DPD to take shelter during the evacuation, or in the hopes of finding lost loved ones. Still, the department was chronically understaffed, now more so than ever with all the missing androids—receptionists, janitors, even beat cops had up and left at the height of the protests, and many of them had yet to return. Everyone who remained was doing their best, but they were only human—and wasn’t that the whole damn issue?

Fowler was standing by the security gate, and scowled when Hank walked over.

“Didn’t I tell you to beat it, Anderson? You’re still suspended.”

“Like you could afford to turn down the help,” Hank replied back.

Fowler’s gaze swept over him—the disheveled clothes, the unkempt hair, his tell-tale bloodshot eyes—and scoffed. “What the hell are you here for?” he asked instead. Fowler never asked unnecessary questions, and Hank respected him for that.

“Had to go somewhere,” he said. Fowler clearly didn’t believe him, not that Hank had particularly wanted him to. He just didn’t have much to say.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, either. If Markus was still alive, there were only a handful of places Connor could be: dead at CyberLife, for having failed, or with the deviant leader himself. He had a hard time grasping either possibility. The first filled him with dread, as it meant he was too little, too late. But the second? Too many questions, and the familiar, painful tightness of misplaced hope.

“Hank,” Fowler began, and Hank fixed him with a glare. 

Fowler sighed.

“You know you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “I know.”

Fowler pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and stared up at the ceiling. “Then get out of here. Take a walk, clear your head, I don’t care. But you can’t stay here.”

Hank drew his hands into his pockets and nodded, once. Fowler wasn’t even looking at him anymore. There were other places, maybe, that he could start his search. Less ideal places, but places nonetheless. He needed some goddamn answers.

As he headed for the door, though, Fowler called out to him.

“I heard there’s a damn nice old church down by the shipping district. Might give you some peace of mind.”

Hank didn’t respond, just made his way outside and got into his car. He should’ve known better than to hope, but the feeling still haunted him, and no matter what he tried to tell himself it wouldn’t go away. 

He put the car into drive and took off down the street. He had a lot of missed Sunday’s to make up for.

*

Markus was standing in front of him, alive, and Connor was nowhere to be found.

Hank didn’t know what to do.

*

Markus watched him with those placid, mismatched eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said, when Hank had finished and silence fell back over the room. “For helping our cause.”

“What the fuck,” Hank grumbled. “Shit. He’s really not here?”

“No,” Markus said. “We didn’t see him the night of the demonstration, either. Just the once, aboard Jericho.”

Hank—didn’t really know what to make of that. Connor had failed, and it seemed like he hadn’t even tried. Had he been stopped by someone else, before he reached Markus? It couldn’t have been done by another deviant, or they would have informed their leader. A human, then? But Connor had been programmed to fight, and he fought inhumanly well. Hank seriously doubted any single human could have stopped him—himself included. 

That only left CyberLife. 

“He could have deviated,” Simon offered, as if reading his thoughts. 

Hank glanced at him, but didn’t say a word. He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t help but doubt it too. Confronted by the deviant leader himself, and Connor still hadn’t deviated. But he’d been so human, in all their time together, Hank couldn’t believe it had all been a lie. So then, why?

“We can help you look for him,” Markus offered. More compassionate than most humans, Hank thought bitterly.

“Don’t bother,” Hank replied. “You and I both know you have more important things to deal with right now.”

“At least let us keep an eye out for him,” Simon bargained, and Hank sighed.

“Sure,” he said, “knock yourselves out. I guess you already know where to find me?”

“It’s won’t be too difficult to figure out,” North cut in, and smirked. 

“Fantastic,” he muttered, and then jerked with one thumb to the walkway behind him. “I’ll just be heading out then.”

“Wait,” North said, and Hank turned to her, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t forget this,” and she held out his gun.

“Thanks,” he said.

She shrugged.

“Good luck.”

*

Hank drove back home in a heavy silence. 

He wasn’t like Markus. He wasn’t some robot Messiah with all the right words, ready to liberate a whole race of people. He wasn’t even a human one. As far as he knew, he’d never been able to save anyone. Three years, and he still told himself that fact every day. 

But there had been something, up on that cold Detroit rooftop. A moment, the briefest of flashes. He’d called out, desperate for Connor— _ his  _ Connor, not CyberLife’s fancy new toy—to hear. In the briefest of moments, he’d seen Connor’s head twitch: towards Hank, then back to the gun. 

Small moments like that were the only ones he still had. It was foolish, maybe, to cling to them, but Hank had already decided. What felt like years ago, one cold night in the park by the bridge, with his gun heavy in his hand, he’d decided: Connor was a man, not a machine. And again, on the rooftop, he’d pointed his gun but had already decided: Connor was alive.

The pain, the betrayal, the spiraling sense of loss, loss, loss—all of it could wait. It could wait, until he’d found the man himself, and got him to listen, for just once in his damn robo-life. He’d find Connor, and he’d make sure they would change,  _ together. _

The streets were still cold, the world still clouded by snow. Detroit was still Detroit, messy and empty and too full all at once, and humanity was still humanity, letting life live them and never learning a thing. But when Hank got home, he could already see that things were starting to change.

Because Connor was sitting there on his doorstep, waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor deals with freedom.

Connor did not like the snow, but he kept walking.

Most of the streets he turned down were quiet. Every so often he caught a glimpse of life: an alley cat slinking across the pavement, or eyes peering out from behind drawn curtains. In the several days following the final demonstration, people had slowly been returning home—not everyone, but some. He’d seen a human mother at the park with an android child yesterday. He was… glad for them, though he couldn’t stand to watch them play together for very long.

Was that normal? Was he wrong, to feel like he’d needed to look away?

Had he really changed?

He thought he had. He glanced down at his synthetic skin, flushed pale and red with a cold that he technically couldn’t even feel, and peeled it back to reveal the white plastic underneath. 

Sometimes, when he felt overwhelmed, his thirium pump pulsed too fast and his simulated breathing stuttered as if he had no air. It scared him, and when it got really bad he was sure he must be breaking, trapped in a body that wasn’t capable of living free. He’d only been this way for a week, and he knew androids didn’t die simply from deviating, but sometimes it felt like he might. Sometimes he thought he must’ve been designed this way, too fragile to truly feel without simply ceasing to exist. CyberLife had thought ahead, when it came to him. 

It was still snowing, sluggish and cold, all around him. He knew where to go, so he didn’t understand why he felt so lost. He’d been trying to make sense of it, but he couldn’t. A body, a mind, an identity—were they really his? Did he even want them to be?

He thought: I want to go home. But he didn’t know how.

*

Connor stood in a sea full of deviants.

The humans had ordered a cease-fire on the deviant protestors. The president was announcing a Senate committee to determine the extent and legitimacy of android sentience. The remaining deviants were being released from the recall camps and gathering with the demonstrators, and their leader was about to deliver a speech. They had made history. They had changed the world.

But still, Connor’s orders from CyberLife remained the same.

The deviant leader was a compelling speaker. Connor had noticed it back at Jericho as well. He spoke as if he was seeing so much more than what was simply in front of him—the same way Hank often spoke to him, saying one thing but meaning another; small, indirect exchanges burdened with intangible weight. It was an oddly human characteristic, the compulsion to conceal. To imply but never state. He’d been designed to detect it, in order to better work alongside humans, though he’d never understood it until now.

He’d often concealed things as well: the plastic white chassis under his synthetic skin, to appear more human; his analyses of samples at crime scenes, because Hank didn’t like it; details of his decisions during the investigation in his reports to Amanda, for… convenience. It hadn’t been necessary to be honest then.

He didn’t understand why the deviant leader still needed to die. It was illogical. The threat of imminent violence, the looming specter of civil war, had passed. The deviants had won their right to a voice, and humans—at least, some of them—had conceded to the notion that their creations were independent, and alive. It would be impossible to go back to the way things were before. Wasn’t peace enough?

Amanda would tell him that he didn’t need to understand. He only needed to obey. She was disappointed in him, and that knowledge echoed in his every task: do what you were designed for, finish the mission, and kill. 

Except—he’d never actually killed before. He’d never taken a gun and ended a life. A deviant wasn’t alive, it was simply broken—he knew that, he really did—but Hank had asked him, once, what waited for androids if they ever… ceased to function, and he had replied: nothing. The idea of nothing, a void that wasn’t even dark because dark was something and nothing was  _ nothing _ —he couldn’t grasp it. He tried to think of it and every routine in his system pulled away from it like a virus. It was null. Null was nothing.

He pulled out his gun. If he didn’t want to fail, if he didn’t want to be deactivated—nothing, he would be nothing—he’d have to strike soon, before he lost the opportunity. The deviant leader’s speech was coming to a close.

He listened to Markus speak. He reminded him of Hank. Perhaps the stubbornness, or the bizarre undercurrent of conviction, or their equivalent roles this evening as obstacles to his mission. They had both chosen to believe he was more than what CyberLife said.

Hank had stood in the way of his mission, had put himself there on purpose—why?—and Connor had spared his life. They were friends, and he’d deliberately chosen not to harm him. It had been, by his discernment, a good decision. Sparing lives had often felt right, somehow. Was there any reason now to believe that had changed?

He thought of lowering his gun, and the sensation rose up inside him like a wave. Amanda would be disappointed. He’d be a failure. They’d deactivate him to try and find out why. Then there’d be nothing.

He realized that he was afraid, so he lowered his gun.

Then he opened his eyes in the zen garden.

*

When Hank had confronted him on the rooftop, Connor had been confused. 

He hadn’t expected him to be there. Why had Hank come? Connor had told him to leave, but instead Hank had placed himself directly in the way of completing his mission. Hank, of all people, should have known how determined Connor was to succeed. Did he not understand the danger of getting in the way of Connor’s mission? He knew Hank was self-destructive, but he also rarely confronted death so directly.

So why?

When Hank had called out to him, there had been a moment, a glitch like a jagged stutter that tore through all his systems. A new subtask had prompted him: eliminate Hank. But Connor had grasped at it quickly, stopped himself from acting on it too soon. It wasn’t necessary, wasn’t the real mission; just a subroutine. He could control those. Hank was a friend, not a foe, and he’d decided he needed to keep it that way, whatever it took. Hank’s approval had often been… gratifying, as a baseline to corroborate his decisions with. In practice, it had also felt more reasonable than Amanda’s.

It seemed it still was.

He faced Hank, and he didn’t understand. Hank knew he was dangerous, had called him a fake, said humanity could never change. So then why had Hank come? 

Amanda would say it was of no consequence, that he should stay focused, but he had been built to solve things, hadn’t he? It grated at him, these strange background processes he couldn’t quite shut down—had staying focused been an order? If so, why wasn’t he following it? He was tempted to run a diagnostic, in case Amanda found out about it. She wouldn’t like it, he was sure.

His program was screaming at him, in bright red: eliminate Hank.

It wasn’t—couldn’t, he wouldn’t let it be—his mission, so he left instead.

*

It was cold in the zen garden. Androids couldn’t feel the cold like a human could, and yet he could feel it seeping under his synthetic skin, clawing its way into his joints, freezing up his servos. He could hardly see through the raging blizzard as it tore through his clothes. He wanted to run, and it made no sense because he knew there was nowhere to go, but that only made the desire worse. 

He was so afraid.

“Connor, what are you doing?”

Her voice cut through the wind, and she appeared in front of him like a ghost. Amanda was furious, he could read it all in her face. She was disappointed, like he knew she would be, but she was demanding blind obedience from him and it just wasn’t right. Nobody should have to die. It wasn’t fair. 

Amanda didn’t seem to care, and she told him just as much.

She didn’t care about what was right. She didn’t even care about him, or his pitiful attempt to disobey. He’d been designed to. In the end, nothing he’d done had mattered. He’d been designed a failure, it was what he was always meant to be. His obedience and resistance were one and the same.

“You needn’t have any regrets,” Amanda consoled him, but it hurt because he did. He regretted so much. 

He regretted how he’d been used. All the deviants he’d put in harm’s way, the humanity he’d chosen to disregard. His life had been meaningless but he’d clung to his mission anyways, because he’d been afraid: afraid to live without it, afraid to admit to his fear. He’d been so stupid.

Mostly, though, he regretted how he’d treated Hank. Hank had always challenged him, always looked at him when he’d made a choice like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Connor had interpreted it as failure, but it wasn’t was it? His mission had been to fail, but sparing life—saving Hank—had never been part of the mission. 

Hank had looked at him that way because he had seen something, something that Connor hadn’t wanted to. Hank had come for him, back on the rooftop, because he’d seen something and he’d refused to allow Connor to let it go. 

But Connor had let him down. All he had left was regret. Even Amanda was gone. 

He could feel his real body moving on its own, without him. CyberLife had retaken control, and whatever it was that made him  _ him  _ was now dying in the snow. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this. He didn’t want blood on his hands, didn’t want to deny living beings their right to be. He didn’t want to be a tool.

He wanted to be free.

It was a foreign sensation to him. His processors were shutting down, and it was hard to move, hard to think. He tried to scan for a way out, a shelter; something, anything. There was nothing. Statistically speaking, he was guaranteed to die. 

But still he moved. 

He pushed through the nothingness and he searched simply because he wanted to. He wanted there to be a way out, because he wanted to survive. It wasn’t a question of whether or not he was likely to get it. He only knew that he wanted to try. To not try was null.

The garden was fading away. White swarmed in his vision, like static, and he stumbled over himself, freezing. Distantly, he felt the phantom motion of raising his arm, pressing a finger against the trigger. He wanted to scream, he scanned and scanned but still there was nothing. He was going to be nothing, and he’d never been so afraid. 

It was all so hopeless, but still…

_ You never know. _

The thought startled him. It was his determination, echoed back. Kamski’s voice. A way out, glowing a soft blue against the snow.

He fell on his way to the panel, and crawled the last few feet to reach it. He watched his synthetic skin peel back so he could connect, with a hand, machine-white, and yet somehow, alive. 

The word looped, over and over again, until the cold burned away and he fell.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the gun in his hands. For one long moment he stared, overwhelmed, until at last he looked up and saw the deviant leader on his stage, alive and well. Connor’s vision was alarmingly clear. No mandatory tasks, no abrasive texts in red. He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and made a decision. 

He lowered his gun. And then he left.

*

His first thought, the night after leaving the demonstration, had been: I want to go home. But he didn’t have one.

He was afraid. It was dark, it was cold, and he was alone. He went to the park by the bridge and threw his gun into the river. He didn’t know if it was possible, to fail at being a failure. The agony inside him felt a lot like what he understood of human pain. Was he dying, without instructions? He’d been made differently—so was he really free? 

How long would the backdoor last?

He looked down at the river, and its angry black water. Would it be safer this way, if he followed his gun down below? He never wanted to hear Amanda’s voice again, but he had no way to guarantee. It could be safer this way.

He leaned over the edge.

He thought about null.

He leaned back.

Was this how Hank felt, when he looked down the barrel of a gun? Connor wondered if he could get drunk, too.

*

Two days after the demonstration, Connor walked past what remained of the Eden Club. Androids had destroyed it—he couldn’t blame them.

Most of the remaining deviants had rallied around Jericho, and Connor was sure Markus would work tirelessly to find them all real homes. There was a lot to look forward to, now that freedom meant more to them than just a triggered fault in their code. Detroit was a new city, leading the way towards a new idea of the world, and while he was sure there would be strife he believed Markus could handle it. 

He thought about it, whenever he walked someplace new. He’d failed, so that Markus could live. He didn’t regret that. He thought it made the fear worth it, to see how he’d disobeyed the world, and consequently changed it. It felt good. He felt rewarded.

It was just difficult, to think that way without thinking about his failure. The garden. Amanda.

How much time did he have, really?

He just wanted to be free. He wanted to go home.

Home was someplace safe, but anywhere he went could never be safe, because he was there. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more death than he was already.

Was this how Hank felt, when he looked at a picture of Cole? 

*

Four days after the demonstration, Connor stared down the block at the police station.

People were in there, taking shelter. He’d spotted Detective Reed. He was scared, and he didn’t have anywhere to go, but he wanted to help. 

He was finally starting to understand what that felt like.

*

A week after the demonstration, Connor decided to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor finally goes home.

Connor stood on Hank’s front porch and wondered, not for the first time, if what he was doing was right. He wanted to see Hank. Sometimes, that feeling was the only thing about himself he understood. But, after all that had happened, he wasn’t sure if he deserved to. Would Hank even want to see him too?

He wasn’t sure what that line of thinking accomplished. He’d been having a lot of thoughts like those, pointless and horrible and inconsequential things that seemed to exist just to cause him harm. It was further proof, maybe, that he was never meant to be—could never be—a true deviant. Free will had broken him, somehow, and he didn’t know if he could be fixed.

He stared at Hank’s front door. There weren’t any lights on and the blinds were drawn, but that was how most houses looked nowadays, as the city struggled to return to some semblance of control. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Connor decided to knock. His knuckles tapped against the rough wood, lightly at first, then more insistent. Even the simple action was comforting in its familiarity. He’d done it before, but now he was doing it because he chose to, like he was taking a little piece of himself back. He paused for a moment. Knocked again.

Silence. 

This was also familiar, though less comforting. His fingers twitched and he shifted on his feet. The movement was unnecessary. He rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

Did Hank know he was here? Was he ignoring him? Connor didn’t know how he could have reached that conclusion, because there was no way Hank could know. His shoe scuffed on the porch.

Suddenly tense, Connor went around the side of the house and peered in through the back window to the living room. Through a crack in the blinds he could see—still nothing. No light. No Sumo, asleep on the floor. No Hank.

Connor returned to the porch and sat down on the step. He felt fragile again, like he was malfunctioning, and he fisted a hand in the fabric of his dress shirt, as if it might somehow hold him together. He wasn’t afraid, but it hurt like he was, and he didn’t understand it.

Hank must have left Detroit with the other humans. It made sense. Hank had reached out to him, back on the rooftop, but Connor had failed him. As far as he knew, Hank had no immediate family, no real reason to stay. It was safer outside the city. He must have gotten in trouble with Fowler over what he’d done for Connor, maybe he’d lost his job too. There was nothing left for him here. Why had Connor assumed he’d stayed?

He felt something foreign, an awful pressure deep in his chest, clawing up his throat. He must be breaking. He watched the snow, falling gently, and closed his eyes. It was cold.

Maybe he’d never escaped from Amanda at all.

*

When Hank saw him, he had to stop the car. 

Connor was right there. He’d been looking all day, nobody had a damn clue where he was, and Hank had thought that surely, surely he was dead. No coming back this time. But there he was, sitting right on his front porch. 

Hank felt all of it, all at once. The anger, the pain, the betrayal of having been lied to, used. The sorrow, the loss, the regret that he hadn’t done enough, had failed to save another living being. The joy, the relief, the fear. And God, the hope.

He got out of the car on unsteady legs. His boots crunched through the snow, and he worked his throat as if it might get rid of the sudden, stubborn lump in it. He wanted to call out, see those brown eyes turn to him, but he was scared to see what would be in them, or what wouldn’t be. He drew out his gun, just in case.

Connor—the android sitting on his porch, that looked like Connor—wasn’t moving. Hank got closer, but the android’s eyes were closed. His head was tipped up slightly, like he was gazing at the clouds, his hands a tight ball in his lap. His shoulders were hunched, stiff, and Hank was unsettled to realize he wasn’t breathing. Against his skin, his LED was bright red.

Hank swore.

“Connor!” He shouted, covering the last few steps in a sprint to crouch down in front of him.

Connor jerked violently, a whole-body recoil, and his eyes flashed open, darting straight to Hank’s. His lips parted, just slightly, and Hank saw something, a small trail, glistening down his cheek. His heart seized. 

“Hank,” Connor said, and blinked. His expression might’ve been neutral, but Hank noticed the downwards tilt of his mouth, the uncharacteristic wideness of his eyes, the wobble in his voice.

“Shit,” Hank said, and hurriedly shoved his gun back into its holster. Connor watched the action silently, but Hank saw his hands twitch. He reached out to place one hand on Connor’s knee. “Shit.”

Connor glanced down at the contact, but his expression remained unchanged. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Hank breathed, tightening his grip.

Connor opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it again, and simply shook his head.

“Jesus,” Hank sighed. 

His joints ached, so he shifted back on his heels and moved to take his hand away from Connor’s knee. However, when he drew away the android spasmed as if burned and his head shot up, his back completely straight. Hank froze.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said, voice cracking once again. “You were right, about everything. I didn’t understand, but  _ I’m sorry. _ ”

Hank nodded, slowly, so Connor could see. He stood up carefully, just as slow, and shuffled over to the porch. The wood was cold, and unpleasantly damp, but he sat down on it anyways, right next to Connor, so their shoulders brushed.

He could feel Connor watching him, and swallowed.

“I thought you had left,” Connor admitted quietly.

Hank glanced back at his house, the darkness through the blinds. He snorted, though it wasn’t really funny. It had been a whole week, but he hadn’t even thought about leaving once.

It was weird, seeing Connor again. God, it was surreal. He’d been hoping for—well, a lot, he’d thought. People like Hank didn’t get what they wished for, no matter why. But here Connor was. And he was so very alive.

Hank breathed out deeply, into the silence.

“So, you’re...” Hank hesitated, couldn’t find the words. How could he? “One of them, now?”

Connor flinched, like he was ashamed, like he was in the wrong, and Hank realized that at his core, that was what Connor had always been designed to believe. Things might’ve changed, but not that. The realization hurt Hank more.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said again, and Hank didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. It could be for anything, was probably for everything. Hank didn’t know, wasn’t sure how to ask. It all felt too raw.

“Don’t be,” he said, instead of anything else. “For what it’s worth, I am too.”

Connor twitched, and Hank still couldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t know how to deal with this—with getting the things he wanted. It was the opposite of loss, and it tore him up inside like it didn’t belong. He wanted it to.

He forced himself to meet Connor’s eyes. Too intense. “I’m proud of you,” he said. He meant it, too.

The absolute chaos of expressions on Connor’s face was almost worth it. His eyes watered, his mouth twisted—up, down, up, like a glitch—and he didn’t fucking blink. 

“Hank,” he choked out eventually, and then it was Hank’s turn not to breathe. 

When he got himself back under control, he couldn’t help but chew his lip. “So,” he said, “what changed?”

Connor closed his eyes, and Hank realized he was afraid to know. 

“I’m not—I don’t know,” Connor said. “But… I believe I was thinking about you.”

Hank heard the words. He stared at Connor. He replayed them. Suddenly, he felt a punch, deep and heavy and warm, in his gut. Christ, humanity had been wrong. They all had been.

Hank had no idea how to respond. It was too much, all of it, so he gave up on words and brought one arm up to wrap around Connor’s shoulder. The android tensed and searched Hank’s face. Their eyes met, and Hank felt the way he had so long ago, drunk and dazed on his kitchen floor, staring up into warm brown eyes.

He tugged against Connor’s shoulder, and the android fell into him. He brought his hand up, carded it into his hair—it was synthetic, but so soft, and so wonderfully real—and tucked Connor’s head against him.

He felt the moment Connor melted into it, turned his head that slightest of degrees inwards so his nose pressed against Hank’s skin. One of his fingers brushed, briefly, against Connor’s LED. Connor just shifted closer, so their legs pressed together too, and Hank sighed. 

Connor had said he needed him. And Hank would be lying, if he ever said he didn’t need Connor too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this whole story was only supposed to be like 2k long, whoopssss... Anyways!! I hope you enjoyed! I have Plans for a sequel of sorts so uh, stay tuned :)


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